Some Grand Theft Auto Shit!

Conner Valentine; September 14, 2009

PERSONAL ACTION:

After a trip to the liquor store and a purchase of the most expensive bottle of Vodka i can find ( preferably something i cant pronounce) I give my old pals Ivan and Alexcia call and have them meet me at a near by park. After presenting my boys with the delicious (read awful) offering in between shared (and faked on my part swigs) i suggest a night out on the town. The purpose? I am in need of more "supplies" (read weaponry). I bring along my trusty Luisville Slugger in hope of getting to use it in our adventure accross staten. I will follow my Eastern friends to their normal spots and help break any heads or shell out any cash necessary to get what we can, and when the vodka`s gone? WE GET SOME MORE! (i will be combining these 2 with my underworld influence)

Influence Response:

You call up Ivan and Alexi and inform them that you would like to set them both up on a date with Ms. ... uh... Stow-lick-nai-uh? Or something like that? Whatever the bitch's name is, she's got class... she's also made out of alcohol and comes in a bottle and won't you fuckers pick me up so we can party?

Your upstanding gentleman friends agree to meet with you and Ms. Stolichnaya, and agree to bring a duffel bag of additional "friends" to spice up the festivities. They pick you, your baseball bat and several bottles of mid-grade vodka up in Stalin's rusted 1980 BMW E12 and you begin a nightlong serious of exploits which, in retrospect, are probably all violations of your Common Sense Merit.

Your memory fuzzes a bit after the second hour of grinding against some bobble-headed suburbanite blond in the Illusions Disco (They still have discos?) Apparently she'd been bought a few two many rounds before flopping spastically onto your groin in the midst of the dance floor - and never a man to lose out when opportunity knocks, you soon find yourself in the precarious predicament of having a sizable percentile of your blood pool now consist of appletinis.

You adjourn to the parking lot and, after beating down one of Throat Cutter Hernadez's boys who'd been cutting in on Ivan's customers, you decide to hit the road and cruise for a while.

You aren't entirely certain why Trotski became suddenly demanding of the turkey sandwich, but you next lucid memory involves purchasing one for him at a twenty-four hour gas station of some sort while Stalin restocks the dwindling supply of spirits. You don't like the way that the acne-pocked cashier looked at you, and that was honestly the emotion that probably spilled over when the ass in the parking lot approached you for bus fare. Fucker.

Sometimes your best communications are done with a bat. You weren't entirely certain why it happened - but the memory of him spitting out blood and limeade slushy on the pavement is highlighted in your memory, as if he was some sort of alien creature posing as human who had begun to vomit out his day-glo no-doubt-acidic alien bodily fluids as some manner of horrific defense mechanism. Stalin, whom you were pretty sure had just walked out of the store with two Grey Gooses (Grey Geese?) in his trench coat, pushed you into the car before you could finish off your extraterrestrial foe.

You also aren't certain when or why the sirens and lights kicked in, but you had enough mindfulness to realize that the car was full of felons, unregistered arms and booze. You recall Trotski telling you that you were driving lick his grandmother and in spite of your lack of the Drive Ability, being able to floor it for four blocks before jumping some tracks and losing the fuzz behind a train. "Fuck yeah!" you thought, "I just pulled some Grand Theft Auto shit!"

Or at least that's what you thought you were thinking until you wrapped Stalin's car around a telephone pole. You recall some manner of argument erupting with Ivan trying to be a force for mediation between your bat and Alexi's face. You ended up apologizing and paying for everyone to get a cab back to wherever. Trotski told you things would be fine. He would hook up Alyosha with this nice masseuse for the night and he'd probably forget about everything in the morning. Besides... the transmission was nearly shot and if he remembered the previous contents of the car's trunk it would probably need to be dumped next month anyway. In the meantime, you should just take the guns and split.

The next evening, you wake up in your haven, smelling of alcohol, limeade and blood. You have five high caliber pistols and several messages on your phone in angry incoherent Russian. The last message is in English, from Trotski. He tries to apologetically explain that he didn't know that Tatiana had "a little something extra" and that Stalin's probably going to be a little suka about the car after all. He thanks you for the night out and tells you he'll try to have your back in smoothing this whole mess out.

OOC Note: When the highlights of your actions involve guns, vodka and a baseball bat, the STs may decide that you have waived your right to Common Sense for the day.